STILL I love to rhyme, and still more, rhyming, to wander

Far from the commoner way;

Old-time trills and falls by the brook-side still do I ponder,

Dreaming tomorrow today.

Come here, come, revive me, Sun–God, teach me, Apollo,

Measures descanted before;

Since I ancient verses, I emulous follow,

Prints in the marbles of yore.

Still strange, strange, they sound in old-young raiment invested,

Songs for the brain to forget —

Young song-birds elate to grave old temples benested

Piping and chirruping yet.

Thoughts? No thought has yet unskilled attempted to flutter

Trammelled so vilely¹ in verse;

He who writes but aims at fame and his bread and his butter,

Won with a groan² and a curse.

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